We were young. So much younger. One with freckles and long tangled hair--layers of skirts, scarves and construction boots. The other with hair too long to stick up straight and too short to politely lay down--a tutu and black tights. We marched down the sidewalk, half skipping when we forgot our dignity (which was often), with philosophy books tucked under our arms and our backpacks heavy with novels.

The world belonged to us. We said so as we rested under the over-pass, watching the cars drive heedlessly into the distance.